Only Time Will Tell
by Rhadeya
Summary: Barton alone knew the secret of why Coulson hated Loki so much. With Phil dead, can Clint take on the responsibilty which his friend left behind?
1. Choices

Author's Note: Short chapter to give a little back story to what is to come :)

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"_How many did I kill?"_

The question had been going around in his mind for weeks, ever since his best friend and former lover had freed him from Loki's control. She had told him more than once to forget the body count and focus on the future, but he couldn't take her advice. She didn't realise that he remembered everything he had done whilst Loki had controlled him, and he wasn't about to tell her that he did. And so he continued to feign amnesia and pretended that he didn't remember, all the while trying to find out the names of those he had killed, so that one day he could make amends to those left behind.

~.~.~.~

A month had passed since the "Battle for Manhattan", as the media had named it, and S.H.I.E.L.D agent Clint "Hawkeye" Barton was trying to battle his demons. The faces of the dead haunted his dreams, accusing and vengeful. His waking hours were spent searching the databases for the names to go with the faces in his dreams. Director Fury had ordered him take an extended leave of absence after the battle had concluded. With Loki returned to Asgard and the world once more at peace, relatively speaking, it was time for Clint to do some healing of his own. Natasha had accompanied him to Nevada, where they spent two weeks moving slowly through the desert. Climbing, running, swimming and fight training filled each day, tiring him to the point of exhaustion in an attempt to avoid the dreams which came every night. When they got back to New York he buried himself in his work, splitting his time between identifying those he'd killed and helping with the clean-up effort.

.

As the days ticked by and he put names to more of the faces which haunted him, Clint began to feel that perhaps he could survive the aftermath of his actions. With each name he learned, the accusations in his dreams lessened. As his nights became less guilt ridden, a new face began to fill the spaces left behind as the dead faded away. Skin as white as newly fallen snow contrasted sharply against the rich mahogany hair that framed a delicately boned face. Sky blue eyes, surrounded by long dark lashes, stared unblinking into space, showing no signs of the mischievous and highly intelligent soul that lurked within the damaged shell. A long scar ran from her forehead down along her left jaw to her chin, its smooth edges a testament to the sharpness of the blade which made it. More scars criss-crossed her neck, creating an intricate pattern that travelled down her back and wound around onto her stomach and hips.

.

With each night that she filled his dreams, the pain deep in his soul grew a little stronger. He knew what he had to do, but he shied away from doing it, afraid he wouldn't be strong enough. He understood the responsibility he would be taking on, if he was willing to accept it. He knew Natasha would understand, if he chose to tell her, but something he couldn't explain stopped him from confiding in her. Suppressing a sigh, he pushed away the paperwork his was wading through and pulled his laptop closer. Bringing up a mapping website, he entered a set of longitude and latitude coordinates and pressed enter, watching as an arrow appeared in a remote area of New York State. The map identified a small body of water as being called Dream Lake and Clint smiled, knowing how much the woman from his dreams had loved the name when she had moved there.

.

Sending a quick text to Natasha, to say he had some things to attend to and he'd return soon, Clint Barton headed down to the subterranean garage beneath the S.H.I.E.L.D building he was in. Rather than take any of the company cars, which he knew could be tracked, he chose instead to take his beloved motorcycle. Slipping on his crash helmet, he turned the key and grinned boyishly as the bike roared to life. Wanting to escape before anyone came looking for him, he slipped the bike into gear and raced out of the garage, heading west towards an uncertain future.


	2. Decision Time

Clint Barton walked slowly into a large airy room, empty except for the large ornate chaise longue at the centre of the room. The intricately carved ebony base stood out sharply against the white marble floor, yet blended beautifully with the blood red and gold fabric which covered the seat. The elegant piece, reminiscent of 19th century England, faced away from the door, partially hiding the woman reclined upon it. Large glass paned door stood open to the outside, giving the woman an unobstructed view of the small lake upon whose bank the modest house stood. Clint remained motionless by the door, inclining his head slightly as an older lady appeared soundlessly in the doorway behind him.

"Has there been any change?" he asked quietly, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the silent room.

"No," the woman behind him replied softly, her Scottish accent sounding smooth and silky to his ears.

"Does she know?" he queried, wondering if he had to break the news to her.

"She has been told," she told him, meeting his gaze when he turned to face her. "Whether she understands, I cannot tell you. She has made no change in expression, no indication she is aware of her surroundings, since the day she was brought back here, bleeding and near death."

"Does she still manage to feed herself?"

"Yes," she confirmed, her voice filled with sadness. "If food is placed within reach, she will slowly consume it, as she will with water. She manages to see to herself when nature calls, though I tend now to carry her back to her seat, as it breaks my heart to watch her try to walk."

"Does she recognise you at all? Did she recognise him when he came here?" Clint wanted to know, fighting to keep his voice neutral.

"No," she said, her voice holding no rancour or resentment. "Sometimes, I wonder if it wouldn't have been kinder to let her go..."

"Perhaps it would have been," he agreed, shrugging. "But he didn't let her go, and I cannot simply walk away from her either."

"Why?" The question held no censure, just curiosity.

"Because he saved my life," he confessed. "It is a debt I can now never repay to him..."

"But is that a good enough reason to take on this sort of responsibility?" she demanded, her gaze flicking briefly to her silent charge, before returning to lock eyes with him.

"The truth is, Magna, that she has always been part of my life, even though I didn't recognise it until recently," he told her, his voice firm and committed. "She has haunted my dreams for years, hidden in the shadows mostly, but always there. I could easier gouge out my own eyes than turn my back on her now."

"Then perhaps Phil was right to entrust this responsibility to you, Clinton Barton," Magna agreed, her lips curving slightly into a half smile which was gone so quickly, he wondered if he had imagined it. Inclining his head in thanks, Clint squared his shoulders and walked slowly across the room, certain now that the choice he had just made was the right one.

~.~.~.~

Sitting on the edge of the chaise longue, his thigh brushing lightly against her slender calf, Clint studied the woman before him. Her skin, always pale, had taken on an almost translucent, deathly pallor. Dark circles beneath her eyes and sunken cheeks served only to accentuate the skeletal look, her dark red scars cast in sharp relief against her corpse like complexion. Her eyes, which ranged in colour from deep ocean blue to steel grey, depending on her mood, has settled into a faded blue, their depths holding nothing but an endless, empty abyss. She had retreated into herself so completely that nothing remained behind but an empty shell, devoid of everything that had once made her the mischievous, inquisitive and courageous woman he had met so long ago.

"Amelia," he began, his voice breaking slightly. "I know you're still in there, somewhere. I promised Phil a long time ago that if anything happened to him, I'd look after you and that's what I'm gonna do." He watched her intently, looking for any sign that she understood what he was saying to her, and sighing inwardly when he saw none.

"I'll do whatever I can to help you, Amelia Coulson," he vowed, his voice quiet yet filled with conviction. "Just as I promised your brother that I would."

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_So, a little more revealed Please R&R to let me know how I'm doing_


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